


and now you're tearing through the pages and the ink

by blafard



Series: and they were roommates [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - College/University, Baz is a literature student, M/M, Roommates, artist!simon, bc hes a nerd and little shit, omg they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 17:49:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19835422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blafard/pseuds/blafard
Summary: It seemed a little silly that Baz didn’t use his laptop to write an outline or to actually begin on his essay like every normal person in the year 2019, especially since his father wasn’t exactly stingy with money and Baz’s comfort.But he was a little old-fashioned  in that department.He also loved the smell of ink on crisp paper and how beautiful his neat handwriting looked on all those papers before he had to type everything up with an impersonal font.Since Snow stepped into his life though, it had become increasingly more difficult to actually write on clean paper.





	and now you're tearing through the pages and the ink

**Author's Note:**

> title from "colors" by halsey 
> 
> simon has an amazing taste in fashion bc he's an artist 😌
> 
> I'm a sucker for artist!au's so here we are.

Baz was not amused when he found another stack of papers, meant for an assignment he had to finish in 2 weeks, covered in doodles and all kinds of colours.

Why did art students always think they could just take any paper in sight and use it for meaningless scribbles they forget about anyways?

Why did _Simon Snow_ think he could just take any paper in sight and use it for his silly scribbles?

Sometimes Baz wanted to throttle his roommate, but being arrested for murder was not on Baz’s aganeda.

_Unless…?_

The dark haired boy shook his head, discarded the papers full of doodles somewhere onto their messy floor and then went in search for some clean paper to write an outline for his essay.

Clothes were strewn all over the floor (all of them Snow’s), some empty pizza cartons were lying under and beside his bed and a big canvas stood against the wall, a sheet covering the work in progress.

Baz had never really cared about Simon’s work. He knew that the blond had talent, even if he would never tell him that, but he still would love to see what the sheet hid. Simon never worked on it when Baz was around and sometimes even carried it into the room late into the night, when he hoped Baz would be asleep to put it away and pull a sheet over it again.

To say that Baz was only _interested_ was an understatement, but he wouldn’t violate Snow’s privacy like that and moved on in his search for fresh paper.

He found some more in his drawers, some covered in doodles of different flowers, that actually looked quite nice and others in half finished drawings of pale hands, with long fingers and black nails.

A small smile appeared on his lips, when he saw a doodle of Simon himself probably. In it the blond seemed to be asleep while a speech bubble next to his head showed that he probably was in a lecture he found boring.

* * *

It seemed a little silly that Baz didn’t use his laptop to write an outline or to actually begin on his essay like every normal person in the year 2019, especially since his father wasn’t exactly stingy with money and Baz’s comfort.

But he was a little old-fashioned in that department.

When his mom still lived, she always used paper to write something down and oftentimes complained about her students not thinking about the contents of an assignment before starting properly, which resulted in a messy order and facts that didn’t always make sense.

So he kind of picked that up from his mother and it was one of the few things that reminded him of her in his every day life.

He also loved the smell of ink on crisp paper and how beautiful his neat handwriting looked on all those papers, before he had to type everything up with an impersonal font.

Since Snow stepped into his life though, it had become increasingly more difficult to _actually write on clean paper._

Armed with another new, still sealed notebook Baz picked up from one of the shops around campus and his favorite fountain pen, he looked forward to spending hours upon hours with his newest assignment, that involved reading _The Picture of Dorian Grey_ by Oscar Wilde.

What he didn’t look forward to was Snow sitting on the floor, a new, smaller canvas in front of him and small tubes full of colour around his body.

There was already a bit of blue paint on his cheeks and the white shirt, he always used to paint, had definitely seen better days. His septum piercing glinted in the dim light of the room, a pair of round glasses sat atop a freckled nose, his hair was pulled away from his face by a brightly coloured bandana and his tongue poked out adorably. (Not that Baz would ever say that out loud.)

The blond seemed to be completely engrossed in his work, he sketched some lines over the canvas, before erasing some others, the music from his phone loud enough so that he didn’t notice Baz’s entrance at all.

Baz chose not to engage Snow right away. Instead he pulled off his jacket, placed the notebook on his desk and then disappeared into the communal kitchen to make some tea.

He resolutely ignored any of the students around him and waited with a bored expression until his water boiled and he could finally leave those imbeciles to their own devices again.

* * *

He was gone not even 10 minutes.

10 minutes were not enough time to do much, but apparently enough for Simon Snow to get paint all over the white cover of the notebook.

Baz wanted to tear his hair out, when he saw big splotches on the sides and some on his other papers, that laid on his desk for later. He wanted to scream his frustration out to the world. But most importantly he wanted Snow to stop talking.

Immediately.

“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention and the tube just wouldn’t open and then it _did_ and everything just kind of flew through the air and hit your desk…,” Simon looked panicked next to Baz, his hands were buried in his blond curls and he had a deep frown on his features.

He worried his bottom lip between his teeth, a small flush climbing up his neck out of embarrassment and Baz would find it endearing another day perhaps, would think it’s cute how worked up Snow got over such things but today he was in a strange kind of mood.

Not really annoyed but also not composed enough to keep his emotions in check.

He wanted to just sit down and forget about everything until he had finished the damn assignment. He squeezed the back of his nose between two fingers, his eyes narrowed into a pissed expression when Simon refused to stop apologizing.

“Shut _up_ _!”_ he ordered after a few more seconds of annoying babbling, “Just shut up. I can’t deal with this right now.”

There was almost an audible click when Simon closed his mouth and backed away from the desk. Pleased by the sudden silence, Baz took a deep breath and grabbed his jacket again. Without meeting Snow’s eyes he stormed out of their dorm.

* * *

Hours later, when he finally felt ready to head back without risking to lash out at Simon, he returned to their dorm, now void of said person and all cleaned up for once.

All of Simon’s clothes were put away in the drawers, the cartons of takeout were gone and he even cleaned up the paint from Baz’s desk.

A small note with a cute cat next to Simon’s chicken scratch handwriting laid atop Baz’s new notebook. Curious, Baz picked it up and tried to decipher the small text.

_“I feel bad for ruining your notebook, so I tried to salvage it! I’ll leave you alone to finish your assignment. Good luck! :)”_

The former white cover was completely transformed.

A bouquet of colorful flowers with a detailed vase, adorned by some of Baz’s favorite quotes was now on the front. The splotches were used to make the petals of some flowers Baz didn’t recognise and he had to admit that it looked pretty damn nice.

It was different, it was unique and also so _very_ fitting.

When he opened the notebook he found faint lines on the first 10 pages or so, every single one depicting a different piece of art.

Some were quick sketches of his favorite authors, others cute cartoon-y animals and a few others were very rough sketches of Baz.

He looked very focussed in every single one, his face the most detailed part of every sketch, while the rest was only implied. It was clear that Simon knew his face by heart already, because all of them looked just like him and he didn’t dare to think about what that _means_.

(He was _not_ ready to think about it, because heartbreak and disappointment were too familiar for him.)

That night, Baz finally started on his assignment and thought about how he could show Simon that he wasn’t mad anymore, without actually _saying_ it.

He hoped he didn’t seem too eager to make up.

* * *

Two weeks later he got his assignment back, a _“Perfect, Mr. Pitch!”_ next to his name, and an expensive sketchbook buried between his books back at the dorm.

He wanted to give it to Simon for about a week now, but every time he tried to, he chickened out and made a beeline for the common room.

It was _silly_. He was aware of it.

But he also didn’t want to make it too obvious that he actually _cared_ about Snow and his stupid doodles.

God, he was a mess.

* * *

The solution revealed itself when Simon was hanging out with his friends, which left Baz alone in their shared room.

He grabbed the sketchbook, put it on Simon’s, admittedly very messy desk and wrote a quick note.

Right when he was satisfied with his work and ready to head to bed, without Simon noticing, the door opened and in came the blond himself.

Baz _really_ tried to look casual. The way he leaned against the desk, his arms behind his back to hide the notebook and note, a slight grimace on his face, was _anything_ but casual though.

“Are you okay?” Simon looked slightly alarmed by Baz being on his side of the room, since the dark haired boy always _insisted_ on separated sides that the other would not cross, except for an emergency.

“Of course I am. Why do you ask?” he thanked everything above, that his voice didn’t turn out to be higher than normal.

“You… look a little tense,” he replied, then he closed the door and took off his shoes, which revealed rainbow coloured socks that disappeared in his white overalls.

Baz pressed the sketchbook against his back and then slowly shuffled over to his side of the room without meeting Simon’s eyes. He tried to drop the book onto his bed, but before he could do so, Simon stepped closer, a curious look on his face.

“What’s that?”

“None of your business,” venom dripped from Baz’s words. He knew it was unfair but he didn’t like how this turned out in the slightest. He wanted to be gone or asleep when Simon discovered it and _not_ awake and very much present.

“No need to snap. It was just a question.”

The slammed door cut off any chance to make things right.

* * *

Honestly, this was ridiculous.

They haven’t talked in about 3 days now.

Not that they _did_ talk much when they weren’t actively ignoring each other.

But this frigid silence between them was a new low even for them. So, Baz sucked it up one rainy day, when they were both stuck in the dorm and grabbed the sketchbook.

Simon was sitting on his bed, a soft pullover swallowing him almost entirely, his glasses discarded on the sheets and a worn book in his lap, while he decorated the cover to his liking, much like he did with Baz’s (new favorite) notebook.

He softly cleared his throat and held the sketchbook underneath Simon’s face. The latter scrunched up his nose (in a very cute way) and then slowly reached for the book.

“What’s that?”

“A sketchbook,” answered Baz matter of factly.

“I can see that, but _why_?” Simon looked up at that and watched closely for any shift in Baz’s face.

“You are an art student. You guys need sketchbooks, so here is one.”

Then there was silence. Simon turned the sketchbook over in his hands, ran his fingers over the soft spine and spiral at the top. He cracked the cover open and then examined the thick paper a little more closely.

“This is some expensive stuff, Baz… I– _thank you,_ ” he mumbled, spared Baz a quick glance and then focussed on the paper again. His fingers twitched on top of the book and Baz knew he already itched to sketch something.

And that was enough for Baz to settle his nerves and return to his side of the room.

Minutes later Simon was armed with pencils in all shapes and sizes.

**Author's Note:**

> id really appreciate to hear your thoughts!  
> kudos/comments ♡
> 
> find me on tumblr under [j-morevu](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/j-morevu)


End file.
